


Lost dreams of Rohan

by Sliven



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood, Dreams, Gen, Loss, Youth, hopes, losing a parent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:27:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sliven/pseuds/Sliven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, he was a man of Rohan. Or was he ever? A story of Gríma Wormtongue's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Dreams

_In the beginning, at the dawn of all things, I cared. I cared a lot. Perhaps I cared too much. Perhaps it was caring that became my undoing?_

_Coming back to my homeland after many years, finding it smaller, smellier, the wind more cold, the plains much less impressive… in my memory, it was never so. I nursed a dream then, of change and of glory. But dreams can be dangerous. Dreams deceive us. And, in the end, so few things manage to live up to our dreams._

_I should know. I, who hardly ever lived up to anyone’s dreams. And there were those who held dreams and hopes for me, once. You may not believe it, but there were. As the first, and only son, there was a father’s dream. It spoke of legacy, of bravery and glory. Perhaps it was the hardest dream to live up to._

_No, I tell a lie. There was a mother’s dream for me, it sang a soft song of affection, of a life full of love and acceptance. There were eyes resting on me once, asking nothing of me. And then those eyes were gone, forever closed, and the world asked everything of me, and I crumpled. This was the hardest dream to live up to._

_Then again, there were the dreams of a young girl, who long thought my presence and my work to be of good for the kingdom, who held dreams that I would help bring about changes and hope. I too shared those dreams for a time, but when I did no longer, they still lived on in her mind for far too long. I could never live up to her dreams, and she would never forgive me for it._

_And the one who would be my master, what of him? Blissfully, he never had dreams for me, thought me but a tool. If he ever had dreams and hopes for any man, I pity them; for I doubt that anyone could live up to such dreams as he must have dreamt. Dreams of madness, yes, but such glorious madness. Compared to his, my own dreams turned bleak and meant nothing to me any more. I was bewitched by his words and his ambitions, as they were so very superior to mine. And he was great, you see. Great enough to over shadow whatever previous priorities and promises I’d made, great enough that I would become his agent and aid his mission._

_And with that, all other dreams eventually withered and died. In the end, I had none left. In the end, I bitterly regretted some of my choices, because they left me with nothing. Not even dreams. And a man must have dreams, must he not? Otherwise, how could he call himself a man?_


	2. A battle lost

Winter had been long and harsh. As spring came, breathing warmth back to the barren plains, winter let go most unwillingly. Creeping back slowly over the hills, leaving small specks of snow in places where spring would have trouble finding them, winter kept its grip on Rohan for far too long, nipping early flower buds with long, cold fingers and freezing the new born lambs. 

Spring won the battle in the end, as she always does. But this year, it was at a great cost. Many a house was mourning for loved ones lost, those too old or too frail to survive such a long winter. The house of Gálmód was no different. Sweet, slender Lorhild, wife of a warrior, had caught a nasty cough in the fall and never managed to recover. Through the bleak winter days her complexion grew paler, the smile on her lips fainter. Her eyes, ever warm and curious, never saw the first skylark, though she heard it through the window on her last day. Spring was winning the ever ongoing battle against winter, but for Lorhild, the battle was long lost. It was by sheer stubbornness she was hanging on, a trait of hers always chided by her husband, who firmly held the belief that a wife should yield to her husband in all important matters. Lorhild, who held the belief that a husband need not be informed of the exact nature of all important matters, sometimes pretended to yield to her husband’s wishes, while opposing them as soon as his back was turned. Often, as it turned out, for the best. If Gálmód ever knew, he never mentioned it. Quarrelling with his witty, dark haired wife brought him joy, though he might not openly admit it. And if it wasn’t for the stubbornness he criticized her for, he would have lost her sooner. Perhaps he knew that. 

On her last day in life, Lorhild called for her son. A lanky boy of nine, he resembled his mother rather than his father in appearance. He did not know it was her last day; how could he? He had been called away from an interesting tale told by one of the maids, of man's bravery and the beauty of the elves, of battles fought and heroes formed in the second age. A sullen expression on his face, he entered her chamber, settling down at her side. She did not scold him; not many boys the age of nine wants to be cradled by their mothers. But this time he would have to endure it, she could not leave this world without holding him one last time, silently breathing all her hopes and dreams into his hair as he squirmed to get out of her loving embrace. It wasn’t solely embarrassment that made him want to get away, it was also because she smelled wrong. Lorhild had gotten all the help and remedies the healers of Rohan could offer, and the ointments that were meant to cleanse her chest from the nasty cough had a sharp odour. Her son was not to know, he only knew that it was not the true scent of mother, or else he might have lingered in her arms for just a moment longer. Lorhild let go, reluctantly. 

“Gríma,” she said, her voice fainter than he’d expected, “Go with my love. Find your father, and send him to me.” She closed her eyes, caressing his hand softly before releasing it.  
He might have known then, but he did not. In years to come, he would blame himself, and there would be no one there to sooth his guilt, to tell him: “How could you have known? A mere child, how could you have guessed it was to be the last time you ever saw her alive? You are not to blame. No one could blame you. Least of all she.” These words, he would never hear. He left his mother’s camber and returned to the tale, unconcerned as the child he still was. 

As Gálmód entered the chamber, Lohild’s final words came soft, a mere whisper: “You were good to me, love. You were what I needed,” her eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, Gálmód thought this was it. But then she continued, faintly: “I fear, my love, that you cannot be what he needs. You cannot see as he sees. Husband of mine, I think you should reconsider.” 

Gálmód wanted to be furious with her then, to quarrel and to fight with words again as he had never done with anyone else, but he was not stupid. He realized that the time for word games was gone, and that it would not come again. He understood that his loved one had had the last say in many ways, and he merely squeezed her hand in response, landing a soft kiss on her forehead, then her cheek, and her lips. When he realized that no more words would ever pass those lips, he let out a soft cry and then, in the privacy of her chambers, let his tears fall freely. Lorhild was gone. A mere shell of her remained for him to clutch tightly in his arms.


	3. The pecking order

That spring, the roads of Rohan filled with caravans and emissaries going in all possible directions. The land was in dire need of many goods, as the harsh winter had kept the road closed for longer than was customary. On one of the carts heading east sat Gríma son of Gálmód, mouth dry, looking back over his shoulder.

It had been the last wish of his mother, he was told, that he’d go live with his maternal grandmother who resided in Gondor. He was told that she was originally from Dunland. He was told she resembled his mother. He was told she would care for him. Gríma thought he was told a great many things, but did not get a say in anything. He did not wish to go, did not wish for his grandmother. Gálmód insisted that this was for the best, that it had ever been his mother’s intention he’d go to Gondor, from whence she’d come so many years ago.

 _Dunlending_ , thought Gríma dully, how suitable. The perfect excuse for being the odd one, the one other children whispered about when they thought he wouldn’t notice. He wondered if they had known all along. Deep down, a sensible voice tried to tell him that they had not, that their behavior had less to do with his appearance than with his personality. As it was poor comfort, he shut the sensible voice down and pushed it to the back of his mind, merely a persistent nagging remained. It did not matter why the others picked on him. What mattered was figuring out what would make them stop.

A young boy on the edge of childhood coming to an end, he had already learned to watch his steps carefully, to always consider alleys before entering them, to always pause before turning corners. He was of slender built, a disadvantage to him when other children chose to mock him or to pick a fight. He had learned however, in recent years, to avoid most of these fights. Carefully watching the pecking order, he would try to position himself in favour of some of the stronger boys, seeking their protection and paying them in turn with his services. Sometimes, such a service would be to find other victims than himself to bully: children smaller, perhaps, or boys less quick on the uptake of the ranks of the pack. And as they were beaten he would stand back from the fight, always considering his next move, searching the pack for potential victims or offenders. Children can be cruel towards those they deem as different, and Gríma’s deceptive manners earned him no love amongst his playmates. Oh, he had faced their cruelty; fist to mouth and boots impacting with his belly as he sprawled on the ground, tasting his own blood mingled with dust. He had become a quick learner, manoeuvring himself away from fights and assaults, guarding his steps and slowly convincing the bullies that perhaps this boy, or that, would prove a more sporting victim. He learned to lie, and to lie well. He would tell of wicked comments that he claimed some unlucky boy had uttered, sometimes truthfully, sometimes not. He learned how to flatter the bullies on their nasty assaults and the noose bleeds they caused other children. He learned, far too quickly, how to play the minds of other children, always a few steps ahead, ever watching the pecking order. And so, he learned cruelty in turn.

His father never knew. He could see that his son lacked some physical strength compared to most of his age mates, but thought nothing much of it. Riding and swordplay builds up a young boy’s body and prepares him well for manhood, in Gálmód’s experience. The fact that Gríma showed no great interest for either, since both practices might put him face to face with situations inevitable to pain, such as he could not talk his way out if, puzzled his father; although he did not see the situation as a great reason for concern. As the boy grew, so would his strength, Gálmód reasoned.

Lorhild, a little more perceptive, might not have known, though she rightfully suspected. She knew some of the children here played rough games, and silently disapproved of such. She chose not to voice her opinion on the matter since she saw that the nature of the games were common practice and thought that in a warrior culture, perhaps it must be so. But she noticed that while her son did not seem to improve greatly in fighting skills or strength, the number of fights he seemed to be involved in increased over the years, yet the bruises and cuts associated with fighting became fewer and fewer. This, thought Lorhild, was not sound; usually, the children who were beaten engaged more furiously in improving their muscle and skills, eventually fighting back forcefully. Often to be met with acceptance and comradeship then: once they’d managed to prove their strength and courage, their bruises were worn as badges of honour. The boys grew up together, proving to each other time and time again that they were to become men. They would be men you could count on coming out on the winning side in a fight, men worthy of the Riddermark. It was, in its own way, a rite of passage. Gríma, however, seemed to have found passages all of his own, and had begun to exclude himself from the rite. Exclusion, thought Lorhild, that way loneliness lies. She wished to put her son’s wit and his potential to better use, and she had slowly come to the conclusion that Rohan, perhaps, was not the right place for him.

Gríma’s father did not agree with her. But that was then. Losing his wife and being left with a son who might not be suited for swords and horses, the very thing Gálmód lived and breathed, but instead was inclined to words and knowledge, things Gálmód considered himself to have little interest or patience for, eventually made him reconsider his wife’s suggestion.

It was with a heavy heart that Gálmód saw the caravan disappear. He felt he was sending away the last he had left of Lorhild. A sad smile crept over his face as he considered the fact that her stubbornness played on him from beyond the grave; he was bending to her wishes still. But it was with sagged shoulders he returned inside, when at last he’d lost sight of the cart carrying his son away from him.

**Author's Note:**

> "There is something ugly and unresolved in him..." and I need to explore that something. If you wish to journey with me, then down the depths we go, to explore what formed the traitor called Wormtongue. He was once a man of Rohan... or was he ever?


End file.
